


cacophony

by alcibiades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Dissociation, HYDRA Trash Party, Impotence, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovered Memories, Violent Thoughts, sexual difficulty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcibiades/pseuds/alcibiades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing isn't the memories filtering back. It's the fact that they always get him hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cacophony

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Hydra Trash Meme. Thank you, as usual, to Eli for the beta read; you are the tremor in Bucky's right hand, the tic Steve is developing above his left eye.

So this part isn't the problem.

Bucky is lying in bed with Steve, and Steve is kissing him; Steve's tongue is in his mouth, Steve's hands are in his hair, and Steve is pulling just a little, which he knows Bucky likes. Bucky is feeling pretty overstimulated, but in a good way - the drag of the sheets against his bare skin, the slight rasp of his stubble against Steve's chin, the greedy noises Steve makes when Bucky pulls back to breathe for a second. 

Steve rolls half on top of him and Bucky grabs Steve's ass immediately, urging him closer. Steve slots one leg in between Bucky's thighs, and Bucky can feel how hard he is, the hot line of his cock right there, separated only by the thin fabric of his underwear, and Bucky's.

The _problem_ is that Bucky's only about half-hard, and he knows from previous, frustrated experience, that he isn't gonna get there. No matter how much stimulation he gets, no matter how good he's feeling. No matter how much he -- fucking loves Steve and wants to _have sex with him_ , god dammit, the switch in his brain just won't flip.

He wrenches himself away from Steve, and Steve looks at him, worried and disappointed, a little sad sound slipping out of his kiss-swollen mouth. "Hush up," says Bucky, "let me take care of you," and he flips Steve over onto his back, drags his mouth down Steve's body, and blows Steve until Steve's eyes are rolling back in his head and all he can say is Bucky's name.

++

This part is the problem:

The asset is in the man's hotel room. The man is making them both drinks, although the asset is unsure why, as alcohol has been proven conclusively to have no effect on his metabolism. "Dmitri," says the man, "I'm so glad you could meet me tonight." 

He turns back toward the asset; the asset is displeased that he could not complete the mission before now. He takes the drink and looks at it, and the man says, "Now drink up, lovely, we've got the whole night ahead of us."

The man drinks the drink he is holding, but the asset sets his own drink aside. "What are you doing?" the man asks him, bemused, and he grabs the man, his left hand around the man's throat, and drags him to the bathroom.

The man gurgles, clawing at his arm, but his flesh-and-blood strength is puny compared to the asset's, and it only serves to make the asset more displeased. He uses more force than is strictly necessary. It does not matter. It will not interfere with mission parameters; the body is to be disposed of anyway.

The force of the asset's fingers around the man's neck sends them popping right through his skin. Blood gushes forth, a large quantity of blood, so dark it's almost black. The man's eyes bulge out, his mouth open, and the asset breathes through his nose, long even breaths. The blood spurts over the asset's metal arm, over the inside of the bathtub. The asset can feel the man's strength dissipating, until finally he goes limp in the asset's grip -- and --

There is one final spurt of blood, strong enough that it catches the asset hot and wet in the face --

\-- Bucky wakes up, his whole body tense, his heart rate about twice what it should be at rest. He's sweating, and he's -- hard as hell, not the lackluster response he'd managed to coax out of himself a couple of times recently, but the kind of thing that _demands_ attention, so intense that it hurts. "Fuck," he says, and Steve stirs beside him. He brushes a hand hastily over Steve's hair to soothe him back to sleep, and then he rolls out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom.

He stares down at his cock for a few seconds, braced with one hand against the sink. "What the fuck," he says, and his whole body shudders. But he can't -- he can't -- he wraps his hand around himself and his knees almost go out from under him at the sense of relief. He bites his lip to keep from making any noise, and it takes eight -- _eight_ \-- strokes of his hand to send him shooting off all over his fist and the sink.

For about half a second there's this feeling of -- emptiness, and it feels so good. Feels like somebody cleaned all the dirt out and left him sparkly and new. And then he thinks about -- the guy who had come to collect him had whistled when he saw the body in the tub. "You got mad about _something_ ," he said, and when the technicians had been told about it, they had been disturbed that the asset had used more force than necessary. He wasn't supposed to get mad about those things. About anything.

The inside of Bucky's mouth tastes sour. He washes his hand off and doesn't look at his own face in the mirror. He's shaking a little bit, a faint tremor that touches all of his body except his hands, because he never could afford to have shaky hands. 

He doesn't want to go get back in bed with Steve. Steve doesn't deserve to have -- that -- laying next to him. But it's only going to fuck things up more if he doesn't, so he makes himself walk down the hall, he makes himself pull the covers up. He makes himself let Steve wrap his arms around Bucky's middle and pull him close. The thing he can't do is make himself fall back asleep.

++

"Hey," says Steve, the next day. They're at a baseball game, with Sam, who has gone to retrieve beers for them all. "Did you have another nightmare last night?"

Bucky tugs his baseball cap down slightly, shifting so that his leg is pressing against Steve's. "Yeah," he says. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"A little," Steve admits. He shrugs. "It's all right, though, I can handle being woken up. Were you okay?"

Bucky makes a face at him. "I don't know," he says, "Do I seem okay?"

Steve just looks at him with a very patient expression, and finally Bucky relents. "It wasn't bad enough to wake you up over, all right?" he says. "I know how you need your beauty rest and all."

Steve looks offended and starts to retort, but then Sam is coming back with the beers, one of which he seems to have managed to spill half of. "Here you go," he says, handing it to Steve, "Since you definitely can't appreciate this the way it's meant to be appreciated." He doles out the one with the next largest amount to Bucky, and takes the only full one for himself.

"Shouldn't you be the one drinking the half-full one since you're the one who _can_ get drunk?" Bucky asks him, and Sam says, "Barnes, you test me and I swear to god, I'll pour this one all over your hundred and fifty dollar skinny jeans and then you can be the one going to get another one, supersoldier or no."

"You paid how much for those?" Steve asks, horrified, and everybody laughs, so no: This part is also not the problem.

++

Sometimes the worst thing is the false sense of security Bucky gets lulled into in between the dreams. It's not exactly that he starts to forget, it's just that he starts to think - hey, I'm getting better, maybe it's slowing down. Maybe one day it's going to stop. 

He thinks he can remember having that thought before, a long time ago, when they were going through a particularly rigorous round of experiments. It was after he had been transferred to America; his new handlers, of course, wanted to see what he was capable of. And maybe Bucky's just a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe it's his fault, because he thought of it as he was falling asleep, that he has the dream.

This one's indistinct, fuzzy; they must have drugged him for this, and that would make sense, because they would have wanted him even more compliant than usual. In a way even his dream self is grateful that he doesn't have the stunning clarity he had for the dream the other night. He can't even really properly remember the other man's face; he's just an indistinct blur, dark patches where the hollows of his eyes are. Hands: Big hands with blunt fingers. 

The man pushes the asset's knee back to his shoulder. He says something appreciative to one of the other technicians, something about how flexible the asset is. The asset blinks up at him, but does not say anything; his mouth hangs slack, slightly open. His eyes roll back and forth, looking at the fluorescent lights.

Something pushes inside him and he squirms away from it, trying vaguely to avoid the touch. "Hold still," says the man above him, so the asset obeys. He keeps talking after that but the asset does not actively listen to what he's saying, because the words aren't meant for him, they're not orders. The thing inside him -- the man's finger, he realizes, looking down his body -- moves, probing. It finds a spot that makes the asset jerk, and for a second he thinks he'll be punished, but the man just asks the technician to make a note of it and moves on.

Something else -- something larger -- pushes inside him after that, but this time he is obedient and does not pull away from it. The experiment goes on for some time, until his body reaches the natural conclusion of orgasm. He manages to be mostly still throughout it, but as he has been only moderately successful at following the order he was given, he expects that he will be punished.

The man with the big hands notes the time, and his assistant writes it down. "We'll have to do some more work here," says the man. "Obviously the asset is quite functional, but if we're to use this in the field for any purpose, we'll have to make it a bit more appealing, yes?" 

Steve is already awake this time when Bucky wakes up. He's face down with his mouth open against the pillow, and -- god dammit, he's hard enough to cut fucking glass. "Hey," says Steve quietly. "You okay? I think you were having a dream."

Bucky blinks at him and says, "Fine, yes," and when he rolls back over, there's no way Steve can't see it. He does, immediately, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

"Oh," he says, and then, "Was it a, uh, a good dream?"

 _Fuck no,_ it was not a good dream. But saying that would mean explaining, and -- and -- "Yeah," Bucky says. "It was about you."

The look on Steve's face is incredibly skeptical, and he starts to say "Really?" before Bucky shuts him up with a kiss. He rolls Steve over onto his back and straddles him, and it doesn't take long for Steve to catch up. In fact, it doesn't take long for Bucky to be just about ready to come, his dick sliding against Steve's, Steve's hands on his hips. 

Steve looks up at him and the expression on his face is just too much for Bucky - it's this hopelessly tender look, and he touches Bucky's face with one hand, his fingers sliding heavy across Bucky's lips. Bucky opens his mouth and sucks the tip of one of them in and comes, his body arching tight and then slumping immediately after, like his strings have been cut. 

There is, again, a moment's respite where everything feels good, some of the unyielding tension finally, finally dissipating. Bucky looks down at Steve, who is lying there looking like somebody whacked him with a two-by-four, and all he can think is, I lied to you. I'm sorry I lied to you. 

Sorry, sorry, sorry. As usual, sorry doesn't cut it.

++

Most days it's fairly easy to pretend. He's gotten good at acting like he's something more than a walking receptacle for bad memories. He doesn't know why it's the nighttime that's the worst -- or maybe he does. Maybe it makes perfect sense; it's the only time that all the careful failsafes he's built up, between the life he leads now and the unchangeable reality of his past, come tumbling down. 

Whatever the cause, the result is the same. He dreams of slamming a man's head back against the wall, again and again, until the man's eyes roll back in his head and his hand falls limp from around the asset's neck. When he lets go of the man, the man slides down and slumps forward, and the asset looks down curiously at the crushed back of the man's skull, his hair matted down with blood. 

He wakes up hard again and stumbles to the bathroom, strokes his aching cock and bites his lip to keep from crying out. He sits down on the bathroom floor afterwards and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. He wants to erase it. But it can't be erased.

He's on the couch with Steve, in Steve's lap, with Steve's hand sliding down his chest and stomach into his pants. He's thinking, _fuck, oh no,_ because Steve will find out, Steve will know. So he pulls up another memory, another one of the ones that's clear as day. His mouth is open and Rumlow is feeding his cock in, slowly, inch by inch. The asset will not move until he is ordered to do so. He knows this game. "See, boys?" Rumlow is saying. "He's very fucking good at obeying orders."

It -- it works, Bucky's cock springs to life where Steve's hand is questing for it. He closes his eyes and bites his lip and doesn't make a sound. No whimpering. There are no tears in his eyes. He lets Steve touch him; he likes it, loves Steve. If this is what it takes, he thinks. If this is what it takes.

Afterwards Steve is slanting glances at him that seem suspicious, but Bucky just looks back at him tiredly and doesn't ask.

++

The next dream is this: He's on his belly, on a rooftop. It's cold outside and there is a significant breeze which bites through his clothing. He is not concerned about the wind because of physical discomfort, though. He is concerned about its effect on his shot. 

He looks through the scope. He makes a minor adjustment. The target will be arriving shortly; he will have one shot, and only one, to complete this mission. One bullet - any more and the mission will be compromised, and he will fail the mission. The asset does not fail missions.

The target comes into view, in the building across the street. Neat office, greying dark hair. The asset lines up the shot as the target sits down. Breathes evenly, makes another small adjustment to compensate for the wind. He can see the trajectory in his mind as clearly as if it were really there, like a string stretching out between the two buildings. 

Four breaths. Squeeze on the respiratory pause after the third. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale, fire. Inhale, exhale. Slowly release the trigger.

Window glass breaks. There's a small spray of blood. The asset watches through the scope as the man jerks and slumps at his desk. He waits a few seconds to ensure the man does not move and then begins to pack up the rifle. He reaches for the walkie talkie he's been given, toggles it to the correct channel. "Asset requesting extraction," he says.

"Mission report," crackles back the voice from the other end.

"Mission successful," says the asset. "Target eliminated. No collateral damage."

Bucky's mouth is open and he's already saying "fuck" the second he starts to wake up. He jerks awake, panting, and the truly fucked-up thing about it is that he knows without a doubt that that sense of cold satisfaction - one of the few things he'd retained from before his capture - was for a long time the only thing that the asset could perceive as feeling _good_. 

He's tangled up in the sheets and Steve's arms. He fights free of both of these and walks stiffly, rapidly to the bathroom. He sits on the toilet and thinks maybe if he waits, if he just waits, it'll go away.

The minutes tick by. Bucky's whole body hurts, a dull pain that centers to a sharp point around his cock. He dips his head and runs a hand through his hair, pulls a little, trying to give himself something else to focus on, but it's -- fucking useless, the body wants what it wants. 

He lifts his hips up just enough to pull his sweats down, and grits his teeth as he wraps a hand around himself, biting back the noise that wants to spill out. It's the strangest sensation, because his stomach curls with disgust even as he feels a sick relief. He strokes himself slowly, his breath loud and harsh, rattling from between his clenched teeth.

He spreads his legs a little more and leans back against the back of the toilet, looking up at the ceiling. He tries to think of Steve, but the only version of Steve his mind will conjure is the Steve from the helicarrier, his face bloody and resigned. "Fuck," Bucky grits out despite himself.

He isn't paying enough attention and by the time he hears the footsteps coming down the hall it's too late and they're right outside the door. "Bucky?" says Steve's voice, rough from sleep. "Are you okay? You've been in there for…twenty minutes or so."

Bucky takes two long, shaking breaths. "I'm fine," he says. His voice sounds -- fucked-up, totally wrecked. He doesn't sound anything like himself.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. "It's okay, you know, I'm --"

"I'm okay," Bucky insists, but his voice breaks on the 'o,' and as it does, he sees the handle turning and the door opens to reveal Steve standing there in just his underwear with his hair sticking up everywhere.

Steve's eyes get big for a moment and he almost pulls the door closed again, but then his eyebrows draw together and his jaw sets. "Buck," he says, quietly and maybe a little bit hurt, "What's going on with you?"

Bucky laughs and looks up at the ceiling again for a second, blinking back tears. "The dreams," he says, because the only thing that makes less sense than the truth would be lying to Steve about this right now. "The dreams, I can't -- I don't know why."

Steve looks at him slowly, taking in the whole sordid scene, and despite it all, the fact that Bucky's cock is still hard, pre-come beading up at the head, his hand still wrapped around the base. A shudder of pure humiliation ripples up Bucky's body, a wave of heat, a blush of shame. Steve doesn't say anything.

Bucky groans, strokes himself once just to quell the ache. "The dream you had the other night," Steve says slowly, a sort of understanding dawning in his eyes. "It wasn't about me, was it."

Bucky shakes his head, miserable, and Steve comes closer, standing in front of Bucky, looking right at him. Bucky wishes he could disappear, invert into some kind of black hole and suck this whole situation into nonexistence. Steve crouches down, and looks Bucky in the eye, and then he gets on his knees and puts his hands on Bucky's thighs, yanking him forward.

"Maybe it would help," he says, "if I could turn this into something good."

"Steve, what--" says Bucky, but before he can finish asking, Steve bends down and sucks Bucky's cock into his mouth. Bucky's hips jerk forward for a second until he can get a handle on himself again. His fingers twist into Steve's hair. 

He thinks -- nothing for a few moments, nothing -- and then -- a snapped neck, a man's hand pressing his face against the ground, a woman bouncing in his lap and laughing at him, his fingers slick with blood, bodies falling -- and he manages to choke out, "Steve--!" before he's coming in Steve's mouth.

Steve sucks him through it and then looks up with a determined expression, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "There," he says. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

What does it even mean, _so bad_? Bucky licks his lips. "No," he says. Laughs a little. "No, I guess not."


End file.
